Snakepit
by Aspens Quiver
Summary: The Glade's survival depends on hope. Hope depends on the Runners. So what happens when the Runners stop running?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello internet! This is my first fic, so please let me know if something went wrong and you can't read it. That being said, I'M SO EXCITED! If literally anyone clicks on this story, I'll probably start jumping up and down and screaming (in a good way).**

**Summary (because I can never read the whole thing in the story listings): The Glade's survival depends on hope. Hope depends on the Runners. When the Runners stop running, the careful order of the Glade swiftly breaks down. Soon it's hard to tell which is deadlier: the Maze, or the Glade.**

**I don't know what to do for the rating. There's violence and blood later on, but nothing overly romance-y (you know what I mean).**

**There are/will be elements of both the books and the movies. And, of course, a bunch of other stuff that I made up.**

**Final note: This is going to be multi-chaptered, but updates will be irregular. I have lots of homework, I'm a musician so I automatically have no free time, and I have a non-fanfic writing project I'm working on. I'll do my best to get this whole story out, though. Dead Poet's honor.**

**DISCLAIMER: The Maze Runner does not belong to me (sadly). If it did... well, I'd like to say that a certain character wouldn't have died, but I'm not actually sure that's true. Anyway, only this plot and some of the characters are my own. Credit to James Dashner for canon.**

* * *

Ben's face was a mask of horror. "Oh, I'm sorry! I'm so so so so sorry!" He covered his mouth with both hands, eyes wide in panic as they stared at the map of the maze—or at least, what was left of it.

Calvin shook him by the shoulders. "Ben. Slim it. We can fix it."

"I'm so—"

"If you finish that with _sorry_, I'll feed you to the grievers."

Ben gestured helplessly. "But I broke the map!"

Calvin looked behind him at the huge table that held the ruins of the model and the other Runners, who gaped in dismay at what had become of their creation. Newt picked up a dislodged section of the model wall, which broke in half in his hands. He set the other half down quickly, but not before Minho elbowed him.

Calvin bit back a laugh. "Well, yeah. You did."

"And it took us a year to make it!"

"It did."

"And I broke it! I tried to add the upper paths, but instead, I broke the map! I'm—" Ben bit his lip.

Calvin turned back to him, jaw set. "This is serious, Ben. Seriously serious. You know what you are?"

Ben shook his head, looking like he wished he could disappear.

"Ben, you are one lucky shank, because I have the Maze memorized. I just have to review it a bit, but give me three days and it'll be good as new. You're welcome." A grin broke across the Keeper's face as he turned back to the wrecked model. All the other Runners stood around the table. They had gathered to try and add to the model of the Maze. There were upper passages in parts of the Maze, which started and ended abruptly as if the Creators had forgotten to finish them. Calvin had hoped to add them to the model, but so far, it hadn't worked. "We may have to rethink mapping the upper levels," he mused aloud. "Memorize them instead." He reached across the table and tried to fit two pieces of a wall back together. To his satisfaction, they slid neatly together. "For now, let's just try to clear this klunk out."

The problem with this, however, was that there were eight Runners there, and less than a tenth of the Maze model was broken. As two of them, Zach and Ethan, tried to reach across the table to pitch in, Ethan bumped into Zach, who leaned on the table to steady himself at the same time as Ethan, and the fragile, Glader-made table broke beneath their combined weight, dumping the two onto the floor.

The other Runners jumped away, startled, as they picked themselves up. For a moment, the map room was silent. Then Ethan said, "I think I swallowed a tree."

Rolling his eyes, Newt helped the two of them up. "Why can't ya do that to the _actual_ Maze?"

Zach cleared his throat awkwardly as they stared at the broken table like mourners at a funeral. "Do you think we can save any of it?"

"Maybe if you slintheads stop touching it," Calvin grumbled.

Zach froze. "I-I thought you weren't mad."

"I wasn't when we had a table and most of the model was still intact." Zach started to reach down to salvage a piece, but Calvin quickly pulled him away. "No, no, no. Do. Not. Touch. You go eat dinner while I try to clean this up."

"Okay, Dad," they said in a jumble, exiting in ragtag groups.

Ben lingered. "Cal? Do you need help?"

"Go break the shucking Homestead."

"...oh."

Calvin turned to the dejected Runner, trying to lighten up. "Really, Ben. It's fine. I'm not mad—and if I was, I'd be mad at Ethan and Zach. Or maybe Min."

"Minho? What's he done now?"

"I don't know, but there's always something." Ben laughed, for real. "Seriously, it's okay. We'll have to rearrange running groups tomorrow, to refresh our memory of the base Maze, so I'll have to call another meeting later-but this could take a while."

Ben nodded. "I'll tell the others."

"Wait." Ben turned around in the doorway, nervous again, but Calvin was as calm as ever. "Could you save me some dinner? Greenie sure knows his way around the kitchen," he added.

"Yeah. Newt and some of the others have started calling him Frypan."

Calvin chuckled. "Have they?"

Ben nodded, grimacing. "I don't think it'll stick."

"Willing to bet?"

"Not with you."

"Later, then."

Ben left quietly. Instantly, Calvin slouched, leaning against the wall, struggling to keep his hands at his sides instead of tugging at his messy red hair like he always did when the stress and fear took over. It had taken a whole year to get as much of the Maze mapped as he had. It had taken staying up all night, even knowing he'd have to run all day. It had taken too many close calls. He'd heard more nearby grievers than he cared to remember, seen more of his friends' bodies than he thought he could take.

And now he had to start over.

"Look on the bright side," he mumbled to himself as he started taking the wrecked model outside. "You're not back to square one. You're not alone, and you know some things about the Maze."

_Yeah, but you'll never get out of here. Sure, there's a way; it's just impossible._

_Nothing's impossible. Stop taking the fun out of everything, Cynical Me. _

_This isn't fun._

_I know._

Slowly but surely, the wreckage was emptied out. At this point, there was no part of the model that wasn't broken beyond repair or repurposing. When it was finally cleared, Calvin stood in the center of the map room. It was almost as empty as the first day he had found it, except for the signs hung on the walls with records, patterns, rules. But if he closed his eyes, it still smelled like pine sap. He could still hear the Glade's distant clamor over the rustling of the trees. He could almost pick out Alby, screaming about the broken model—although that might've just been his imagination. He grinned anyway, albeit halfheartedly.

_See? Nothing's changed. _

_That isn't a good thing though. Is it?_

Calvin shook his head, as if that would help clear his thoughts. Maybe the being alone was getting to him. Maybe he should go back to the Glade—the main part, anyway. But it was a long time before he moved.

...

Even from across the clearing, Calvin could see Ben slump with relief as he appeared. He ran over, in case something was wrong—but Ben just held up a plate, looking defeated. "Greenie gave me the death stare for taking two plates," he explained, "even when I told him one was for you." He glanced over his shoulder at the makeshift kitchen, where Frypan had finally relented with a resigned eyeroll. Calvin laughed a little. The two Runners ate in silence.

At some point, Alby came over and sat down heavily in front of them. Calvin and Ben exchanged a glance. "What's up?"

"That's what I wanted to know," Alby said darkly. "The other Runners are all actin' funny. I was hopin' you could give it to me straight."

"I thought you'd have asked Newt," Calvin commented, frowning.

"I can't, not without asking the rest of them."

Calvin shrugged, trying to feign apathy-also known as the hardest emotion to feign. "It's fine. Nothing we can't handle—"

"I broke the model, I'm so sorry—"

"_What?!_"

"It's not your fault, Ben! Stop apologizing—"

"So he didn't _break the model_?"

"Everything okay?" Newt had come over, sitting between them. He looked at each of them expectantly: Ben, wringing his hands and staring at the ground; Alby, trying to decide whether to interrogate one of them or to go see for himself, and looking like some ridiculous bird as he turned back and forth to look at both Runners; and Calvin, facepalming for all he was worth and then some.

Alby rubbed his eyes. "Did someone break the model?"

"Um… maybe?" Newt glanced at Calvin, who shrugged resignedly. "Actually, Zach and Ethan broke the bloody table." The blond Runner was clearly biting back laughter.

Before Alby exploded, Calvin cut in. "We're changing shifts tomorrow to review what we've already covered so the new model will be accurate. Newt, do you think you can put up with me tomorrow?" The Runners used the buddy system whenever possible, and Calvin planned to cover a lot of ground. Newt was the only one who could keep up with him; Minho was close, but he'd twisted his ankle a week or two ago, and Calvin didn't want to push him that hard yet. Besides, Min had a habit of being intolerable.

Newt shrugged. "Don't see why not."

Calvin nodded. "Good that. I'll pair up the others later." The sun had set already. Long shadows stretched across the ground. It almost looked like the shadow forest was reaching for them, ready to snatch them up.

_That's ridiculous,_ Calvin thought.

But he still didn't go into the woods again until morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello again! This is where the plot begins to pick up; the last chapter is pretty random as a stand-alone so I figured the sooner I got ch2 out, the better.**

**There are some suicidal thoughts in this chapter. For those of you who have trouble reading that: YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED**

* * *

Calvin had probably saved Newt's life the first time they went running together. Newt had been in a bad place since he'd come up, to put it extremely mildly. At that point, he didn't much enjoy his own company. It wasn't easy to believe that escape was possible. It wasn't easy to be eager to face a world cruel enough to subject kids like them to the horrors of the Maze. But it wasn't hard to decide that maybe the only way any of them would ever escape was by dying.

It wasn't like opportunities to slip away ever presented themselves upfront. He spent every day running with Minho. The buddy system was helpful sometimes, but it also meant Newt was never alone in the Maze. He never had the chance to leave, not without anyone knowing. He could think of climbing the vines, think of falling and never getting back up, but that was a freedom that he wasn't allowed. It didn't stop him from watching, waiting, praying for his moment to come.

When Minho had his day off, Newt was paired with Calvin for the day. At first, it was just like running with Minho, except Calvin went a little faster. They had to pause at midday so Newt could catch his breath; he was still getting used to this. He didn't want to have to get used to this.

Calvin had looked up, up, up the walls. "Barely look like they end," he commented offhandedly. "A fall like that would be deadly for sure." Heart in his throat, Newt looked up at the Keeper. Calvin watched him, expectant. He was waiting for a reply.

Newt had nodded. "Yeah. It would." His voice didn't sound right in his ears.

"They're this tall in the whole Maze. I've ran the greater half of this thing, Newt. It's all the same." He sat down next to Newt. The Maze fell silent in the absence of their chatter. Normally, Newt appreciated the quiet. Now it pressed down on him, grinding him into the walls. He was just about to say that they should get going—he hadn't quite caught his breath yet, but anything would be better than this—when Calvin spoke. "Just say it."

Newt froze. "What?"

"Say it. I'm listening, so say it."

"We're never going to get out. We're all going to die in here."

Calvin was silent. Still.

"Well?" Newt asked. "Aren't you going to disagree?"

"No," Calvin said simply. "I'm not." Then he stood. Looking up at him, Newt felt small. "But we're not going to stop running. It's a big Maze. Yes, I get discouraged sometimes. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that those guys back at the Glade don't lose hope, and that we Runners know why that matters. If they don't have any hope of escaping, if they don't have a common goal, then they don't have any motivation to survive here. We have to give them something to fight for." He looked at Newt, his eyes seeming to see straight through to Newt's soul. "If we let go, the whole Glade falls. There's no such thing as dying alone."

He offered his hand to Newt to help him up. Newt only hesitated for a moment. Then he took it. "Good that. We've gotta do it for the others. Even though there's no exit."

Calvin paused one last time, a sparkle in his eyes. "I never said there was no exit."

Then he ran, without looking back.

He didn't have to. Newt was right behind him.

…

Newt never felt comfortable around the shrewd Keeper of the Runners. Could Calvin read minds? His way of _knowing_ things was uncanny. Still, he ran. If they left the model broken, the Gladers would get suspicious. The builders were already working on a new table. _Hopefully this one'll be sturdier._

Up ahead, Calvin paused, eyes closed, head tilted. Newt knew by now that this meant he was trying to see the map in his mind to get his bearings, but Calvin seemed more frustrated. He slumped against the wall. "Something wrong?"

Calvin didn't face him when he spoke. "I keep trying to picture the model, but it keeps on being smashed."

"Even in your head?"

He laughed bitterly. "Why not?"

Newt put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look up. "It's getting late. We should keep going."

Calvin turned, suddenly brightening. The devilish glint in his eyes was back. "Nah. Let's have a sleepover."

Newt rolled his eyes. Calvin had kept a quick pace all day. He had had to run harder than ever before, and he was too tired to joke around. He just ran. He knew Calvin would follow.

_Just running._ Wasn't there more to life? Didn't there have to be? Maybe somewhere. But all Newt could ever do was run. If it helped the Glade, if it kept his friends safe, wasn't it worth it?

The Griever came out of nowhere.

One moment, they were running along side by side, hearing only their breathing, their feet slapping against the cold stone. Then, at a T intersection, it jumped out at them, shrieking.

Every Runner knew the code by heart: never stop running; split up and get back to the Glade if you see/hear a griever; and don't be a hero, because they always die.

Newt planted his foot into the ground and pivoted, taking off back the way he'd come too fast to get a good look at the creature. The griever swiped at them so close Newt could feel the air moving. Calvin was right next to him, but when Newt saw an upper path on his side of the path, he knew he had to take it. There was no time for good-bye-and-don't-die; one minute they were running together, and the next they were running alone.

The upper paths were all different, but the one thing they all had in common was how dangerously unpredictable they were. Newt found himself way up high on a precariously thin ledge, struggling to keep his balance. If he didn't die from the fall, he'd become griever chow. He could still hear it, but it was getting quieter. Calvin must've led it away. He couldn't focus on that, though, he just had to run. Nobody knew if the grievers could climb the walls, but he didn't want to find out the hard way.

The ledge took a sharp turn into the wall it was up against, creating a narrow tunnel. Unprepared, Newt nearly careened off the edge. He grabbed onto the wall, trying to stop. For a moment, he balanced on the very edge of the path, trying not to look at the ground. It was a long way down.

That was when he realized that for the first time he could remember, he was alone in the Maze. Completely alone. No one would know if he just… _happened_ to fall.

Except Calvin might. The Runner's voice was buried in his head, nagging at him to get up, keep trying to do the impossible. _Come back, Newt. We need you. If we let go, the whole Glade falls._

_There's no such thing as dying alone._

Newt still didn't know what that meant. And he didn't quite know why he pulled himself back from the edge and collapsed into the tunnel. The day's run was catching up to him, and fast. The doors would close soon. There was no time to stop. He had to get back to the Glade.

He couldn't hear the griever anymore, so he cautiously made his way back to the ground, grateful that he was standing on solid rock again. It wasn't too far back to the Glade from there. He stayed close to the wall, keeping an ear out, but still ran as fast as he could. It wasn't long before he rounded the corner and saw the Glade. He stumbled through the Doors onto the grass, barely daring to believe he'd gotten back in one piece; that had been a closer call than usual, and the Doors would be closing at any minute. Calvin would be worried about him at that point. Newt trudged across the Glade into the forest to the map room, his legs protesting the whole way.

When he had almost reached the edge of the woods, the Doors rumbled and began to close. He paused. If he'd been even three minutes later, he'd be stuck in the Maze at night. His nerves settled a moment later and he kept going.

Minho suddenly burst through the trees, stopping just before he crashed into Newt. Newt jerked away, nearly falling over. _I'm too bloody tired for this._ "Watch it, shank—"

"Where's Calvin?"

Newt froze. "What? Isn't he back by now?" Calvin always got back first. _Always_. Minho and Newt had been trying to beat him all year, but it was an effort in vain.

But Minho shook his head. "I've been in the map room for at least twenty minutes, he would've been there to work on the new model. Hey, shouldn't he be with you?"

"Griever. Split up," Newt said shortly, desperately scanning the Glade for Calvin's mop of red hair but coming up short. Calvin wasn't back yet? The thought hadn't even occurred to him. Of _course_ Calvin would make it back.

Minho moved to stand in Newt's line of vision. "A griever? You don't think—"

The Doors slammed shut with a solid finality.

No one would be getting in until sunrise.


	3. Chapter 3

The ground rushed away beneath Calvin's feet. The ivy on the walls blended into a green blur corridor after corridor. He could hear the griever right behind him, but with each sharp turn, the shrieking and mechanical screeching dimmed. Then it stopped.

Cavin jammed his foot into the ground and skidded to a halt, listening, but there was nothing to hear. He'd outrun the griever.

He'd outrun the griever.

"That wasn't the plan," he murmured, looking back the way he'd come. The Glade wasn't too far from here, only three or four turns away. The Doors would close in under ten minutes. There was a model to rebuild.

But Calvin hadn't even gotten a good look at the griever; it seemed to be a giant spider, but what was it made of? Was it man-made at all? What about the stinger, where was it? What the hell were they running from? How did they leave the Maze during the day and come out at night? _If there's a way in, there's a way out._ It had been his theory for months. The grievers had to go somewhere during the day. Maybe that was where the Gladers were supposed to go to escape.

"It's probably nothing," he said loudly, looking to where he knew the Glade would be. But his legs refused to cooperate. He had to know more about the grievers. It had to be important. And the longer he stood here, the faster his chance—the only chance he'd gotten in a year—was slipping away.

At the moment he decided to go back, a metallic clank sounded from the hall that Calvin had emerged from moments earlier, followed by a cacophony of whirring and clicking that was slowly getting louder. _Apparently I did _not _lose the griever._ Calvin glanced up and down the corridor, saw a convenient offshoot. He ducked around the corner into a dead end, sticking his head out as far as he dared.

A metal leg came out from behind the wall and punched into the ground. A second leg joined it in a chorus of mechanical creaking. Bit by bit, the griever rounded the corner. He had been right—it _was_ kind of like a giant spider. But it was also part machine. The legs and tail were clearly robotic, but the body was unidentifiable. _Is it even alive?_ He couldn't kill what wasn't alive, and if the grievers were cyborgs, this escaping business was going to be significantly more complicated than he'd been hoping.

The griever was still moving forward, slowly and surely. This was its territory, and Calvin was the intruder. It had nothing to fear.

Calvin, on the other hand, had plenty to fear. The Doors would be closing in under five minutes, and the fastest route back to the Glade took him right in front of the griever. With every passing moment, the risk of moving doubled. Even so, those odds were still better than they would be if he was caught out at night. Before he lost his nerve, Calvin darted out from the dead end hallway, sprinting for the left turn that would lead him home.

Something slammed him into the wall. The world went dark for a moment, all the air knocked from his lungs. For a split second, he existed only in cold hard stone and the sound of shrieking metal.

Then his vision cleared, though his head was still spinning. The griever loomed above him, tail flicking back and forth like a cat's. Calvin stayed still. He didn't trust himself to get up and move fast enough, and any sudden movement would be sure to provoke the griever. But it didn't seem like it needed much provoking. The truth stared him in the face: he had seconds to pull off something amazing or he'd be torn apart.

But fear had seeped into him, an impediment dropped into the center of his brain that nothing slipped through.

Then the griever struck and the moment had ended.

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**AN: Hello again! It feels like it's been forever (my personal project has been keeping me preoccupied and I almost forgot I had an account!) but I'm back! Sorry that this chapter was shorter than the others.**

**So... Calvin's dead? I wasn't really planning on that, not that it'll change the story too much (never fear, I have the story plotted to a certain extent, so hopefully it won't disappoint). Calvin is a very dear OC to me, I'll probably bring him back for some other fic.**

**Until next time, then—stay safe, everyone!**


	4. Chapter 4

Newt was running with Minho again the next morning like they always did, but it didn't feel the same. Had his shoes always felt so heavy? He was quite certain that breathing wasn't supposed to be this hard, even though they'd been running for an hour.

Calvin hasn't been there that morning.

He hadn't come into the Glade when the Doors opened. He hadn't been waiting around the corner. He hadn't dropped his pack, at least not anywhere Newt and Minho had run so far. As far as they knew, he had disappeared. Or a different pair of Runners had already found his body.

"Maybe he just got hurt," was what Newt said instead.

He half expected Minho to scoff at his hopeless optimism, but he said, "Naw. Shuck-face is probably waiting until later to come back just to give us a good scare."

_If he's trying to scare us,_ Newt thought bitterly, _it's working a bit too well. Where the bloody hell are you, Calvin?_

…

It was almost time to head back when Minho stopped, simply stopped running in the middle of the Maze so abruptly that Newt only managed to avoid crashing into him by diving into the ivy-coated wall. Before Newt could demand an explanation, he saw it too.

A streak of blood leading around the corner.

The Runners exchanged an uneasy glance. Then Minho's face hardened into his usual tough-guy mask and he strode over to the intersection and looked. After a moment, Newt began approaching. He couldn't see Minho's expression from this angle, and it took all his will to not run around the corner just to be done with the agony of waiting. He couldn't be desperate. Desperation was too close to helplessness, and in Newt's opinion, there was nothing worse than feeling helpless. That was why he ran; anything was better than waiting for someone to come save them.

Bracing himself, Newt looked around the corner.

_Oh_.

_Bloody hell, Calvin._

…

Alby had been berating a clumsy Track-hoe for dropping a shovel on his foot when he heard a commotion at the Doors. He looked up just as Minho and Newt stumbled in. His heart skipped a beat as he took in their defeated posture, their dragging feet. With a final scowl at the Track-hoe, he ran to the Doors to hear whatever dark news had brought the pair back early.

A small crowd had already gathered, but the Gladers cleared the way to let Alby through. Minho was leaning over, hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath. Newt was fumbling with a water bottle. He kept trying to unscrew it, but his sweaty hands couldn't get a grip on it. Alby took the water bottle and opened it without saying a word. As Newt drank, he asked softly, "Calvin?"

Newt passed the water bottle to Minho and shook his head fiercely, as if trying to push something from his mind. "Dead. _Very_ dead."

Alby closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of the ground beneath his feet. Calvin, dead? It felt beyond impossible. Calvin had always been there. He knew the Maze better than anyone else, he'd built most of the model himself. He talked to every Glader as if they'd been best friends for years. Alby had even let himself hope the night before that he'd come back; after all, if anyone could survive the Maze at night, it was Calvin.

Evidently, he had been wrong.

A hand on his shoulder. He kept his eyes closed a moment longer, pretending while he still could that it was Calvin, but he knew it couldn't last. He opened his eyes. Newt gave him a strained half-smile. _It'll be okay._

Alby nodded, glancing at his watch. "It's too late to send Baggers out," he mumbled, quietly so that only Newt could hear. Then he turned to the small crowd, which had grown since he'd forced his way through it. "We'll have a Gathering tonight," he said, loud and clear. "But there's still work to be done if we want to eat. Go on, nothin' to see here." He shooed the others away, until finally, it was just him, Newt, and Minho.

"Are you two okay?" he asked them in a low voice.

Minho straightened up. "Yeah, I'm shucking fabulous," he snapped, jogging towards the woods.

"Let him be," Newt sighed.

"As long as he shows up tonight. We need him there." He stared into the trees. Minho didn't come back. "Should we… someone should tell Ben. Before the Gathering," he clarified, though he knew there was no need.

Newt nodded slowly. "I can, I guess. He'll be in the cabin." He forced a laugh. "Maybe Minho will tell him."

There wasn't much else to say, so Alby just patted his friend on the shoulder. "See you tonight, then."

* * *

**AN: I have returned! Sorry if anyone was disappointed that there was no gory description of Calvin's remains. I don't really want to write that because I liked Calvin a lot and I'm emotionally exhausted enough as it is. Thanks for reading, I'll try to keep uploading as much as possible (without sacrificing too much of whatever quality there is to begin with), which shouldn't be too hard since I'm doing everything from home nowadays and spring break is coming up. Stay safe, everyone!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hi! This chapter is the longest yet, so yay if you like that. I hope you enjoy reading it; it was probably my favorite to write so far.**

**Reviews are welcome and appreciated! I'll do my best to take constructive criticism into account as I continue to write this story. Also, I've been wondering if I'm using enough Glade slang, or should I use more? Or am I using it incorrectly? (I don't think proper grammar matters much as far as Glade slang goes, but I know it would bother me if I thought someone had used the word _shuck_ wrong. *sigh* I'm such a perfectionist.)**

* * *

"I call this Gathering to order. I call this-is anybody listening?" Alby looked around the shoddy meeting room as the crowd of chattering boys. Why they would try to hear more rumors from their friends now that they could ask questions of the people who actually knew the answers was beyond him, but for whatever reason, nobody seemed inclined to listen to him. He filled his lungs and tried again. "I _shucking_ call this _shucking_ Gathering to ORDER!"

The din in the room barely quieted. Gally, the Keeper of the Builders, suddenly boomed, "THE GATHERING IS STARTING WITH OR WITHOUT YOU SHANKS SO SLIM IT!" That did the trick. The Gladers quieted. The only sounds left in the Glade were a complaining goat and Gally muttering something about _shucking slintheads_ and _klunk between your ears_.

Alby nodded at him. "Thank you, Gally. I call this Gathering to order." _Finally._ "As I'm sure you've all heard by now, Calvin, Keeper of the Runners, is dead. His body was found today in the Maze." He kept his eyes on the doorway in the back, so they wouldn't stray to the row of Runners in the front. He'd checked earlier to make sure Minho had shown up and accidentally glimpsed Ben's tear-streaked face. He had no intention of making that mistake twice.

He'd expected the Gladers to ask questions until Gally had to shout them down again, but there was silence. He cleared his throat and continued speaking. "Obviously, we need a new Keeper. And…" He wasn't sure how to say the next bit. His eyes slipped down to Newt, who nodded, slow and deliberate. "Calvin's been an unspoken leader all year. Now that he's gone, we need to decide on a new leader together. Preferably not a Runner," he added, allowing himself a half-smile at them before gluing his gaze back to the doorway. "Those are the two items we will discuss. Does anyone have anything to add right now?"

Buzz stood up in the second-to-last row. He was the Keeper of the Slicers. Alby didn't talk to him much, but he remembered when Buzz first arrived. His hair had been so long that it was always getting in his eyes. Buzz had cut it off, leaving the back of his head full and hairy and the front of his head covered in uneven scratches and patches of hair. One kid had made fun of him for it and got a fist in the mouth in return. Buzz had spent the night in the Slammer, and in the morning, his friend had shaved the rest of his hair with significantly more skill. When the friend had gone into the Maze—nobody knew why, and Alby had gotten too many headaches guessing—and gotten stung, Buzz had replaced him as Keeper, but anyone could tell he'd never gotten over it.

"I'd like to add something," Buzz said mildly. He didn't go on.

Alby waited, but it seemed Buzz wanted to be prompted. "Okay. What's up?"

He frowned. "You won't like it, but we should talk about it anyway."

"I don't like any of this, so what is it?" Alby resisted the urge to check his watch. He wanted to get this over with.

Buzz folded his arms. "I'm beginning to wonder if we should send Runners into the Maze at all."

Silence survived for two full seconds. Then the Gathering exploded. Some boys shouted him down, others applauded the statement. Several were out of their seats. It seemed some were hollering nonsense just for the sake of having something to say. The few who were quiet had hunkered down, plugging their ears to wait out the storm.

But Alby didn't have that kind of patience. He stood on a log that served as a chair and roared, "ONE AT A TIME!" Eventually, the Keepers got everyone to sit down, and Alby could talk again. But he wasn't sure what he should say. They needed the Runners to run. Considering not running the Maze seemed dangerous, but now that the question had been raised, it could be riskier to ignore it. The seed had been planted. He had little choice but to discredit the idea now before it got bigger and grew teeth. "Alright then. We'll discuss this, but only one person speaks at a time. Good that?" A chorus of assent went mumbling around the room. "Right. Buzz, I suppose you'd better begin this." He stepped aside and sat next to Newt. Calvin used to sit there, while Alby was with the gardeners.

Buzz came down through the crowd of Gladers until he was at the front of the room. When they quieted down, he spoke. "Buzz, Keeper of the Slicers," he introduced himself. "We all know that Calvin was the best Runner we had. That's why he was the Keeper. If he couldn't survive the night, then the grievers are more dangerous than we can imagine. The Runners risk their lives every day when they go out there, and we don't even have proof that there's an exit."

"There is an exit!" The shout came from a younger Glader in the very back. "We've gotta go home!"

"It's my turn to talk," Buzz snapped. The kid sat down at a nod from Alby, and Buzz went on. "We have _no proof_ that there's an exit. It's a shucking lie, that's all it is! Why should anyone else get hurt?" He stood off to the side, indicating that he had finished speaking but silently declaring that he'd defend his opinion when someone inevitably challenged him. _Fantastic_. Alby grimaced.

Immediately the other Gladers began clamoring for the chance to speak next, and Alby had to quiet them down again. "One at a time," he repeated through gritted teeth. "We'll be here all night if you keep yapping every time someone sits down, so sit down and raise your hands. We'll get to everyone." Grumbling, they sat down, and almost every hand shot up. Alby amended his statement. "We'll get to everyone, but only talk if you have something to say that hasn't already been said." A few hands went down, but Alby suspected there would be lots of repeating anyway. With an inward sigh, he resigned himself to picking the next person to talk. His gaze fell on Ben, hand raised barely above his head, unshed tears welling in his eyes. Their eyes met and Alby nodded to him, returning to sit down beside Newt.

Ben shuffled to the front, taking as long as Buzz despite only having to travel a fraction of the distance. "Ben," he whispered when he got there. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Ben. I'm a Runner." He glanced around the room, at all the expectant faces that met him. "I volunteered to be a Runner when I first got here because I believed we could escape." This wasn't strictly true. He'd volunteered because he wanted to be with Calvin. When he'd first come up, he was so scared he wouldn't get out of the Box. it had been Calvin's day off, and he'd promised to look after him. That had finally given Ben the courage to get out and face the strange new world he had found himself in, and he had stayed by Calvin's side like velcro ever since. But that didn't matter anymore. "I believed there was a way we could get home. I still believe that. And I'll keep going out there because we have to try. If there's any chance at all, we have to try." He swallowed hard, turning to address Buzz. "You said we can't prove that there's an exit. That's true. But it's also true that you can't prove that there isn't one. That means we still have a chance. I'm going to take it." He hesitated, not sure if he should say what he was thinking, but it slipped out anyway. "I know Calvin wouldn't want us to stop."

"Look where it got him," one of the Slicers called.

Alby scowled in the voice's direction before saying, "Is that all, Ben?" The Runner nodded, staring at his shoes. "Thank you, please sit. Anyone else who wants to speak, raise your hand," he added before they could start bickering amongst themselves again.

The Gathering stretched on and on. Some boys sided with Buzz, retelling horror stories of the Maze. Many Slicers spoke their piece, disregarding the make-original-arguments rule. The only one who didn't was Winston, who was fairly new and looked like he'd rather eat griever stew than be in the Gathering a moment longer. Alby couldn't say he blamed him. Others expressed their wish to go home or shared new ideas of how to escape without going through the Maze, most of which had already been tried. Greenie—or Siggy, or Frypan, or whoever he was—gave a speech on wanting to go home, unaware that everyone had felt like he did when they were new. Gally surprised him by supporting the Runners; Alby was never sure what Gally was thinking. Some comments prompted an uproar, and each time, Alby's fraying temper shortened.

Eventually, only two hands were left. Alby called Zach up, then said that Newt could go on his own once Zach was done; he had been saving the Runners for last, as this was ultimately their choice, and he knew Newt was the sort to listen before speaking. It had surprised him when Newt's hand had gone up from the start, but he hadn't wanted to be accused of favoritism by calling on his friend first.

Zach shuffled to the front, introduced himself, and promptly made his case. "I've been looking up to Calvin for as long as I can remember," he said. "I always believed there was nothing he couldn't do. And now this-" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, looking down. "Calvin's dead. The Maze killed him. I don't care what you decide, I'm not going back out there. What we need outweighs what we want. What we need is to be safe. We're safe in the Glade, but the Maze?" He shook his head. "No, man. No. I quit. If there's an exit, it's not worth this." He went to sit back down.

Newt stood up and was at the front before Zach had sat down. There, he paused. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say. No, that wasn't true. He knew what needed to be said. He was just afraid that he didn't have the strength to say it. He looked up at the other Gladers. Alby was leaning forward, waiting. Minho's eyes were fixed to the ground; he hadn't said a word since they'd gotten back. Normally the silence would've been wonderful, but this wasn't normal. He didn't want to get used to this.

"I'll admit it," Newt said, so softly that some of the kids in the back had to strain their ears to listen. The room was pin-drop quiet. "When I first got here, I was thinking like Buzz. The Maze isn't small, and every wall looks the same as the last." He looked at Alby. His eyebrows had furrowed, his forehead creased. Then he turned to Buzz. "I asked Calvin what you're asking. Why search for an exit that might not even be there if the bloody Maze is so dangerous?"

Buzz raised his eyebrows. "And? What did he say?"

"That we're living for that hope. Why are we doing all of this, if not to get home someday? Besides, Calvin's said over and over that there's a way out, and not like he was trying to convince anybody. He believed in that. I believe in that. There is an exit, and it's worth everything." He looked back at Zach, sitting with the other Runners. "Frankly, I don't care what you decide either. In the end, this is the Runners' decision, and I'm going back out there. I'm going home." He sat down between Alby and Ben.

Alby stood and went to the front of the room, pacing back and forth for a moment. "Newt's right. This is the Runners' decision. They're the ones in danger out there." He looked back to the Runners' bench. Only seven sat there, not the usual eight. _How long will it take? How long until I'm used to this?_ "Well? Who's running, and who's quitting?"

Zach stood and went over to stand beside Buzz, shaking his head. Two other Runners, who had been sitting on either side of him, exchanged a glance and followed Zach.

Newt stood, folding his arms. "I'm running," he said. Ben stood beside him. Minho rose slowly and joined them.

That left Ethan. He was still sitting, looking back and forth between them. He hadn't spoken at the Gathering. Zach took a step forward. "Ethan, please…"

Ethan stood slowly, like an ancient man waking from a nap, and joined Newt, Minho, and Ben. "I'm sorry, Zach," he sighed. "I have to try."

"Even if it kills you?" Buzz inquired.

Ethan didn't respond.

Before the tension in the room exploded, Alby clapped his hands together. "That concludes item one of the Gathering. We can figure out the rest of this klunk tomorrow. All in favor, go eat dinner."

Within five minutes, the Gathering room was empty.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I figured this chapter warranted some warnings, so here they are. Remember the T rating for some blood and violence? Well, it didn't turn out as violent as I'd been expecting, but this is the chapter where things get dark and violent and all that. It's all downhill from here. Welcome to another long chapter with a jumpy POV (it's in chunks so it shouldn't be too hard to read) in which pretty much nothing good happens.**

**Reviews are welcome and appreciated (and motivate me to write more so you see where I'm going with this)! I should be able to update more frequently now that school is going to be remote for an indefinite period of time. Camp NaNoWriMo starts tomorrow, so I'll be working on that, but if my NaNo book starts giving me a headache (and even if it doesn't), I'll come here. Never fear, this story WILL be completed!**

* * *

Zach stood at the edge of the forest, arms crossed, leaning against a tree. The sun was still rising and the other Gladers were eating breakfast, but Zach couldn't. For the first time he could remember, he had no appetite.

He watched the activity at the Doors to the Maze. Alby was seeing the Runners off. Minho, Newt, Ben. Ethan, who was probably Zach's closest friend, now preparing to enter the Maze. They'd done it before hundreds of times, running side by side, swapping friendly insults as they went along. Even if Zach had long since lost hope of finding an exit, he wouldn't have given up his days in the Maze if he'd had the chance.

Now things were different, but Ethan didn't see that. He'd tried the night before to persuade Ethan to stay in the Glade, but Ethan refused, and Zach couldn't understand why. _Don't you see you're chasing your own death?_ Ethan had walked away. Zach wasn't sure if he was mad at him or not. He wanted to run to him, to make sure they still had friendship even now, because if Ethan didn't make it back…

"They just don't listen."

Zach's heart nearly sprang into his throat at the voice. He whipped around, nearly falling over. "Buzz, don't do that!"

The Keeper shrugged. It was the closest to an apology as Zach could hope for.

Buzz stood beside him, peering out at the Runners, who were pairing off. Ethan and Newt, Minho and Ben. "They don't listen," Buzz said. "I tried to protect them, but they wouldn't listen. The Maze will destroy anyone who goes in. We have to protect them before it's too late."

Zach looked over to Buzz. "We? What can we do?"

Buzz reached over and put a hand on Zach's shoulder. Zach resisted the urge to shrug it off and look away from Buzz's hardened eyes. "What are you willing to risk to keep them safe?"

Zach swallowed, looked out towards the Doors. Ethan and Newt exchanged a nod and ran into the Maze without looking back. Alby stood, gazing through the Doors long after they would've turned. "I'll do whatever it takes." He pried his eyes away, turning back to Buzz. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Buzz dropped his hand, but no intensity left his eyes. "You know the Maze. I need you to help me find them before it's too late."

Zach nodded shakily. "And then what?"

Buzz grinned at him through dead eyes. "We're going to bring them home."

…

Newt slowed at the familiar intersection, and Ethan did the same. "What is it?"

Newt caught himself biting his fingernail and stuffed his hand into his pocket. It was a habit he'd had since he first arrived in the Glade, and Alby was constantly reminding him to stop with varying degrees of success. They were standing two left turns from where he and Minho had found Calvin's body the day before. His current route with Ethan would take him there again. "Let's take a detour," Newt said, turning right and taking off.

Ethan sprinted to catch up. "What? Why? Is something wrong?"

_Yes._ "No. Unless you want to see what's left of Fearless Leader."

Ethan winced. As gruesome as his imagination could be, and despite the possibility that Calvin's remains were long gone, he was in no way eager to visit their former Keeper's grave. In fact, the more he could avoid thinking about what had happened, the better. He'd learned from experience that running and grieving didn't go well together. "Detour all ya want."

They skirted around the area and explored the inner Maze, reviewing. They still had a model to rebuild. Had it really only broken three days ago?

They made it a little over halfway around the Glade before pausing for lunch at a T intersection. Ethan ate quickly while Newt stood alert, and then they swapped. Ethan peered down the arms of the T; no one was there. Just as Newt was finishing, he thought he heard something behind him. He turned and paused. "Buzz, what are you doing out here?"

About forty yards away, Buzz was striding down the corridor, hunched over, hands in pockets. Zach jogged next to him, brow furrowed. Ethan sighed. He really didn't want to have this conversation. Zach would ask him to come back to the Glade, and he'd have to explain why he was still running. _Again._ He'd rather go down fighting than waste away in the Glade; couldn't Zach respect that? Ethan was content to agree to disagree, he didn't want to lose a friend over this. He wasn't sure yet if Zach felt the same way. He probably thought he was protecting him. Ethan tried to feel honored by the thought, but it didn't work.

Buzz didn't reply to Ethan's inquiry, he just kept on power-walking towards them. Newt stood up. "Buzz?" Still, no response. Newt took a few steps closer, standing directly to Ethan's right. "Zach? What's going on? Did something happen in the Glade?"

Zach slowed, falling back. "You need to come back," he said. Ethan's frustration dimmed; his friend's voice was earnest, not spiteful. Maybe they could work this out after all. "It isn't safe. We don't want to lose anyone else."

As he spoke, Buzz came closer and closer, eyes burning. He began to draw his right hand from his pocket. A flash of light caught Ethan's eye, drawing his attention from Zach; Newt was still watching the former Runner, he didn't notice anything from his angle. Buzz's hand came farther up, and soon Ethan could see what he was holding.

His heart stuttered. _Is that a knife?_

There was no time to think. Buzz was within arm's reach, raising the knife to strike. Ethan shoved Newt back—but by then it was too late to stop it.

The knife hit home in Ethan's chest.

The Runner was dead before he hit the ground.

…

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Alby scanned the Glade for anyone slacking off and found someone. One of the gardeners, Zart, sat on a fallen tree, staring blankly at a patch of dirt. Alby suppressed a groan. _Here we go again._ He leaned his hoe against a tree and jogged over to him, plopping down beside him. "Zart. You've gotta work." The boy didn't even look up. "_Zart_."

Zart sighed heavily, poking the ground with a small stick, disturbing a large ant. "There's no point. Half the Runners quit already."

"The smaller half," Alby pointed out. Maybe optimism would work; he didn't know Zart very well.

Clearly he had been wrong. Zart rephrased his statement. "Only half the Runners are running. The other half either quit or died violently." He jabbed at the ant with the stick, but it scuttled away too quickly. "It's only a matter of time before the others chicken out, and I can't even blame them, but then we'd be stuck here for-shucking-ever. What's the point of a few tomatoes?" He snapped the stick in half and flung it away.

Alby gritted his teeth. "The _point_ is so we can _eat_. So we don't _die_."

Zart sighed again. "Newt had a point, though. Why live if we'll never get out?"

"You're assuming the rest of the Runners will quit," Alby said. When Zart nodded, he went on. "You're wrong."

Zart looked up. His eyelids sat heavily, sinking down over his dark eyes, giving him an appearance of either being exhausted or bored out of his mind; either way, he didn't seem to believe him. "How do you know?"

_Shuck it, can't this ever be easy?_ Alby looked out at the Doors. "They're dedicated to Running, and they believe we'll get out."

"What if they change their minds?"

"I wasn't finished," Alby snapped. "They're also stubborn donkeys—or maybe more stubborn than donkeys. In any case, I don't think they'll quit. And while they're running, those tomatoes won't pick themselves." Alby patted him on the arm (possibly a little too hard, but he didn't really care at that point) and began crossing the garden to get back to work; after all, he could hardly lecture the other Gladers on productivity and then ignore his own rules.

One of the Slicers, whose name might've been Winston, tapped him on the shoulder before he got back. "Alby? Have you seen Buzz?"

He paused. "Buzz? I can't say I have. Why, haven't you?"

But Winston had already run off to ask someone else.

Alby pushed it from his mind as he bent down to pick up his hoe.

That was when he heard shouting from within the Maze.

…

Newt had never run so fast in his life, he was sure of it.

The world had seemed to drop away. Newt had seen the knife in the same moment that Ethan had pushed him, he had been on the ground watching Ethan fall as blood spurted from his mouth, and then he was on his feet and running. He didn't remember what had happened between. He wasn't sure he wanted to. His feet had simply fled of their own accord, dragging him along. His thoughts ran and fell and bumped into each other. _Buzz, Buzz had a knife—get back to the Glade—Zach did you know? What will we do, will anyone believe me? Is Buzz following me? Ethan—bloody hell, is Ethan really—_

He was almost back at the Glade. _Focus on that._ Footsteps pounded behind him, had been pounding for what felt like miles and inches at once. Or maybe it was his own scrambling feet echoing in his head. It was impossible to tell.

Almost there, he was almost there. He tried to hold onto that thought. _Almost to the Glade. It's not home, but it's better than here._

One more turn—

Pain shot through his ankle like lightning. Newt tried to get up—had he fallen down?—but couldn't. Someone was behind him. He rolled onto his side to try to see. Buzz was there, Buzz and his knife, Buzz who was about to kill him. The knife came down, but Newt threw up an arm to block it, shouting out as it sliced his skin open. His own knife was trapped beneath him, he had no better way to fend off the feral attack. _Buzz, what happened to you?_

And then it stopped. Newt looked around, saw Alby hauling Buzz back, slamming his head into the wall of the Maze until he fell unconscious. Then Alby ran over to him, helping him sit up even though he didn't really need it, murmuring variations on _holy klunk are you okay?_ the whole time. Then he asked the dreaded question. "Newt, what happened?"

What happened. His eyes drifted to Buzz's limp form. "He killed him," he whispered. He tried again, tried to get his voice out, even though it seemed locked away. "Alby, Buzz killed Ethan." He began collecting his thoughts, bracing himself to explain everything, but it wouldn't come out. All the energy that had carried him through the Maze in record time had abandoned him here, leaning on his best friend, blood seeping from his leg and arms. Alby hugged him, though he himself was shaking near uncontrollably.

_Wait—_

Newt sat up straighter, trying to push Alby away. His lungs began to lock up. "Alby." He could barely speak, and the word came out as a strangled gasp.

"It's okay," Alby said, still holding him. "Just breathe."

"_Alby_." His voice had found him again, somehow, but he knew it wouldn't last. He looked up into his friend's concerned eyes, but his own vision was blurring too much to make his face out clearly. The pain in his ankle had flared up again. "Where are Minho and Ben?"

* * *

**A/N: Aaah! I know. I don't write drama/violence/action like that much (I prefer to daydream about it, it never comes out quite right when I try to write it out), so I hope it worked. And as for the cliffhanger-which-isn't-really-a-cliffhanger-because-canon-occurs-in-the-future, I'm not nearly as sorry as I probably should be. Authors are evil. It's so fun.**

**I do have this story's plot planned out to a certain extent, so I'll keep updating as consistently as possible. We're about halfway through or so, if that's helpful at all. Then again, I can be flexible if the story wants something else.**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: I'm back and I fixed the formatting! Six hours later is better than never, I suppose. I'm sorry it's been so long, but never fear, I WILL SEE THIS STORY THROUGH! (Hopefully someone cares.)**

**This chapter is kind of necessary filler, but again, it's better than nothing, and it was fun writing in Minho's POV. **

**Thank you to LeoIsMyJam for your kind reviews!**

* * *

Minho was on his way back to the Glade after lunch when he heard muttering. It seemed to be coming from around the corner, rising and falling with manic intensity. He planted his foot in the ground and came to an abrupt halt, putting his hand out to stop Ben. "You hear that?" he said as softly as he could.

Ben's brow furrowed, then he nodded. "What is it?" He asked it in a stage whisper, the kind that's like pretending to be quiet but is actually annoyingly loud. Minho winced inwardly. He'd never heard muttering in the Maze before, but if it was some new danger and not just some idiot Glader, it had probably heard him and was crouching to pounce.

"Wait here, I'm going to go check it out. Run like hell for the Glade if you hear me screaming in agony." He patted Ben on the shoulder, suppressing a snicker at his bewildered expression, and jogged to the corner to peer around it.

It was Zach.

The former Runner paced in the corridor, hunched over, hands on his head. It looked like he was pulling his hair out. His breathing was heavier and louder than his jagged speech. Minho couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Zach?" He began walking towards him, slowly. "Zach, what the shuck are you doing? I thought you'd be in the Glade."

"This wasn't supposed to happen!" Zach yelled. He stumbled and fell to his knees. Minho still wasn't sure if he'd noticed him. He resumed his mumbling. "No, no, no, I'm sorry…"

Minho took the direct approach; he grabbed Zach by the shoulders and shook him like a broken vending machine. "Zach. Dude, talk to me!"

Zach flinched when Minho touched him—no, more like he jumped, or convulsed. "M-Minho?" He gasped, sobbing, and tore himself from Minho's grip, flinging himself against the wall

Weird. Minho stepped back and waved for Ben to join him, then crept towards Zach, who was huddled against the wall, still muttering. "Zach," he almost shouted, "why the shuck are you in the Maze? I thought you quit." He spat the last word out; it left a sour taste in his mouth.

Zach shuddered again. "I'm sorry, Ethan—"

"Who said anything about Ethan?" Ben piped up.

He shook his head wildly. "I'm sorry, I didn't know! Ethan, I'm—"

Whatever Zach had been about to say—probably yet another frantic apology—was cut off when Minho grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against the wall so he was facing him. "What. The. Shuck. Are. You. Sorry. For?" he hissed. "What happened?"

Zach met his burning gaze for the first time, but his eyes instantly slid away. "I didn't know—"

"About what?"

"He said he wanted to protect you—"

"Who said?"

"Buzz," Zach choked out. He was trembling, but Minho didn't loosen his grip. "I took him into the Maze so we could bring you back before anyone else had to die but—but he lied—" Zach broke off again, his head hung low. "Ethan… I'm so sorry…"

Minho let go and backed away from Zach, who had crumpled like wet paper. "What happened? Zach, where's Ethan?"

Slowly yet suddenly, Zach stopped shaking. "Buzz killed him," he whispered. "I pulled him away but it was too late, I tried to stop him but he knocked me out—I tried. I'm sorry."

Ethan. Dead. Murdered. Minho shook his head. He could hear Ben's shaky breathing behind him; he didn't turn around. "Zach. Where's Newt? What happened to him?" The words turned to ash on his lips. If Newt was gone—no. He couldn't even think it.

But Zach shrugged. "I think he got away. I don't know if Buzz was quick enough to follow him, he could be lost out here! Buzz, not Newt," he clarified.

Minho nodded slowly. Too much was happening, too fast. Maybe Newt was safe in the Glade. Maybe he was dead in the Maze. Maybe he was hurt, maybe he needed help, but Minho had no way of finding him, and the Gladers needed to know what had happened to Ethan. He could step up and be the leader. He could pretend it wasn't taking every ounce of self control he'd ever had to keep his hands from shaking. He could force himself to stop thinking about every one of Ethan's bad jokes or Newt's kind gestures, which assaulted his mind and relentlessly knived themselves into his heart. "Alright, everyone, we're going back to the Glade. Now."

If he looked over his shoulder to make sure the other Runners were still there behind him, he certainly wasn't going to admit it.


	8. Chapter 8

**I'M SO SORRY! I lost interest in this story a few months ago and stopped updating, but I'm back and determined to finish. It'll take a while, but it'll happen. In the meantime, thank you so much for your patience.**

**I'm using more elements of the books in this chapter. For movie fans, beetle blades are little robots that spy on the Gladers. (One makes a brief appearance.)**

**Enjoy chapter eight! (Finally.)**

**...**

The commotion heading up the stairs of the Homestead made Alby clench his fists. He'd had far too much excitement for the day, thank you, and would happily throttle anyone who tried to bother him and Newt. The Runner was sitting up, frowning at his injured leg, eyes far away. He'd calmed down remarkably quickly once Alby had found him, and managed to limp to the Homestead with Alby so he could get his injuries taken care of before they got infected, but since then he'd just… shut down. He had barely said a word. He hadn't reacted at all when Clint said he wouldn't be able to run until it healed, like he hadn't heard. Normally it bothered Alby when his friend put up a cheerful front when something was clearly bothering him, but this was way worse.

The noise was getting closer, someone crashing into every wall as they scrambled upstairs. Alby glanced back at Newt, who still hadn't moved, and then launched himself into the hallway, tacking the intruder into the wall.

It was Minho.

Alby let go instantly. "Is Ben okay?"

Minho nodded, breathless. "He's outside… with Ethan. Newt?"

Alby jerked his head towards the room he'd come from and pulled Minho in after him with a hand on his shoulder. Newt was finally looking up, a relieved half-smile on his face. Alby sat down with a heavy sigh as the Runners embraced; as good as it felt to see his friends in one piece, they still had a long way to go before they ran out of problems.

A beetle blade scuttled around his chair, startling him out of his thoughts. He kicked at it, but it just took shelter in the corner. Alby couldn't bring himself to care enough to do anything about it.

"Buzz is in the Slammer," Alby told Minho as they broke apart.

Minho took a seat. "Shoulda left him in the Maze." His voice was thick. Alby pretended not to notice.

"Right," Newt muttered, "he would've just stayed in the bloody Maze if we left him there." He was looking down again. So was Minho. Alby joined them, unable to stand the sight of their grief, let alone try to manage his own.

"So what do we do?" Alby forced a shrug, knowing neither of them were looking. "We can't just keep him in the Slammer forever, but we can't let him out."

An alarm blared, ringing across the Glade. All three looked up and exchanged glances. The Box was coming up way off schedule. Like we don't have enough to deal with. Shucking Creators.

Alby stood. "Stay here," he told them both.

Minho snorted. "No way."

Newt stood up, leaning on his left foot. "Like bloody hell."

Alby pushed him back into the bed. "You're hurt, you need to rest."

"So you think you can stop me?"

He took a breath to keep arguing before he saw the look in Newt's eyes. He looked awake, determined, for the first time since he'd gotten back. He wasn't about to ruin that. Grumbling, Alby led the way to the Box.

A crowd had already begun gathering, and in the time it took for the Box to reach the Glade, nearly every Glader had gathered around. The only people missing were a handful of Slicers; Buzz's friends, Alby noted.

Then the Box was there. The top opened. Alby stepped up and jumped down. There was a single bag in the Box, long and thin. That was all.

The Box rarely came off schedule, but when it did, it only had what they needed. He remembered the beetle blade in the Homestead. Buzz was a problem they didn't know how to handle. What kind of solution did the Creators have in mind?

Alby grabbed the bag and let Minho help him out. He pulled the top open and looked inside.

A set of long metal shafts sat there, the tops grooved so they could fit together into a long pole. At the end of one was a strip of leather with a button snap on the end.

Alby took the end of the leather strip and fastened it at the base, where the other snap was. It formed a loop, sized perfectly to fit around someone's neck. A collar.

He turned around and raised his voice so the rest of the Gladers could hear him. "Keepers are having a Gathering in ten. The rest of you, get back to work."

The Gladers clamored for attention, trying to get their questions answered. Alby left without a word.


End file.
